I find myself feeling uneasy each time they tell me I walk around with the word love carved on my forehead. I find my chest beating heavy each time they link me with beauty and grace. Admitting this brings out all the shame I have left in my guts, but to be clear: You are all wrong. I was born with rage firing up my shoulders and hatred crawling deep in my bones. It’s just that my hands have gotten better at pouring soil over them and letting flowers rejoice amidst it.
I choose to be kind. My insides are burning. I choose to love. My head is just about to explode. I choose to let my softness grow. My fingers could create a catastrophe. I choose warmth. My eyes are flawed with loathing and resentment. I choose forgiveness. My body is prepared to dig up a grave. I choose to hold things dearly. My knuckles are ready to wreck everything and let it rot under the carpet. I am made by hearts who failed to love and arms who failed to hold. I am swallowed by greed.
To finally carry out contentment, for how long should one hold mercy? If being kind means letting go and letting it be, maybe for once, I’d prefer to sit on the devil’s table. They’d boil my heart and crave for it as if the sins are invisible. And maybe for once, I’ll finally understand how it feels like to wither acceptance.
